


Something Like

by enmity



Category: Tales of Destiny
Genre: F/M, ambient creepiness inappropriate tone etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enmity/pseuds/enmity
Summary: It’s the kind of affection cheesy love ballads run on, an earnestness that eats you alive, slowly, from the inside first.
Relationships: Johnny Shiden | Karyl Sheeden/Chelsea Tone
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Something Like

**Author's Note:**

> long time no johnny/chelsea
> 
> 2021 is already terrible because while writing Johnny I keep accidentally writing Olivier instead. god help me

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, inquisitive. His smile is patient, not quite indulgent—it’s not that she dislikes it, being indulged. It’s just that she’d rather pretend it’s the same thing as being listened to. “How big? How much?”

“ _This_ much!” The girl across him straightens, stands up, lithe, strong legs a blur of slender white and jaunty pink as she bounces on her heels, her arms raised and spread wide, horizon-like. “I love Lord Woodrow this much. No--” she backtracks, face scrunching up, and for half a second he wonders if she’s about to scold him, for making her compress _the depth of her feelings_ into something as banal and thoughtless as a _hand gesture_ , “even more! I love him as much as… as much as the sky is vast and the sun is ancient!”

No sarcasm, no ironic play on words, and she meant every single one. It’s the kind of affection cheesy love ballads run on, an earnestness that eats you alive, slowly, from the inside first.

\--something like hope, and Johnny finds he likes that. He whistles appreciatively, laughter bubbling up his throat, “Like that, huh?”

“Yeah.” Chelsea nods meaningfully, and her hands have come down, the wings of a sparrow returning to her cage after a long flight. They’re clenched, now, fingers curled into knuckles held close to her chest, on either side of her breastbone. “Like that.”

“Such colorful descriptions,” he commends.

“High praise, considering you’re the poet,” she says, sparing a glance at the lute leaning against the tree behind him, half-unsure of whether he actually meant it as a compliment or not.

Chelsea has her tells: downturned eyes, teeth dragging across bottom lip, the way her shoulders slump and how her knees don’t knock together but almost do. She’s not complicated, not really, not all that hard to read, despite Woodrow’s habitual cold shoulder and dismissive remarks; she just hates feeling silly, and it’s really too bad the person she’s talking about isn’t here, because then she’d feel even sillier and Johnny would have more of a reason to smile than he already does.

It’s really, really too bad.

Her gloves are thick and practical when he presses his hands to both wrists, pulling her a stumbling step towards him, into the shade of the tree he’s sitting under. It’s not the season for pink blossoms, and neither is he her Lord Woodrow, of course not, but her face colors interestingly all the same, and Johnny can’t help but laugh. “Don’t tell anyone, but I might be jealous.”

“You’re just saying that,” she mutters, sounding less indignant than she’d probably like to be.

“What I wouldn’t give,” he goes on, tone light, “for a lovely young woman to serenade me with such words! Yes, your prince is a lucky guy indeed.”

Her cheeks puff. She backs away from him, and her arms slip free to hang at her sides. “…He sure doesn’t act like it, though.”

He waves a hand at her, and there’s not a crack in his smile, not a single fault line of ill intent or where exactly he wants to tell that prince of hers to go stuff it. He tells himself she wouldn’t listen-- that she might cry, that the arrow lodged in his chest afterwards would be metal and sharp, less like one of his flowery metaphors and more like Tiberius’ goddamn blood spilling all over his father’s throne-- and where would making her upset get him, anyway? Nowhere good. He’d rather see her smile, even when he doesn’t agree with the _why_ ; and it’s all the better when he does.

“You’re an earnest and thoughtful girl, hm? Two of the best things anyone can be, if you ask me. You’ll figure out a way.”

And for what it’s worth-- what do you know, it’s a miracle-- she does smile. “Thanks.”

“Cheer up, baby!” He stands up, reaching out to pat a hand against her shoulder, “I didn’t invite you here so you can sulk! Do you want to hear another secret?”

Chelsea tilts her head, eyes widening, turning bright. Like one of the kids in his hometown who looks at him and doesn’t think of royalty or his more accomplished siblings or the throne that’s still sitting empty and clean and expectant in the capital’s palace-- they look at him and see a jester with a lute, singing silly songs promising freedom and love and things too good to be true, like it’s as good as he’s going to get, and usually, he’s more than all right with that.

“A secret?”

“Yep.” He winks down at her. He tucks strands of her hair behind her ear. He watches her eyes: the color of sprigs and evergreens. A hopeful, earnest girl, and he imagines, later, she would feel very silly indeed. “But you have to promise; this stays between us.”


End file.
